


Commiseration

by purple_bookcover



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: AU in which all these characters are alive at the same time?, Drunk Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, also pining over Holst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_bookcover/pseuds/purple_bookcover
Summary: Holst left 63 days ago.Not that Christophe is counting. (He is totally counting.)This is the story of two sad dopes (Christophe and Balthus) pining helplessly over Holst.
Relationships: Christophe/Balthus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Commiseration

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to make all these characters alive and of-age at the same time so *waves hands* poof, Christophe is a happy, healthy 20-year-old. Don't even worry about it.

Holst left 63 days ago.

Not that Christophe is counting.

He remembers the last time he saw Holst wearing that ridiculous, cocky, beautiful grin of his. “It won't be that long,” he'd said.

But it would be that long. That long and longer. They're both first sons, important sons, destined-to-inherit-territory-and-responsibility sons. And that means no more summers spent playing together, no more rough housing like when they were boys, no more kissing practice in the corners of their fathers' libraries. 

“Then he just skips off like it's nothing. Like we're not even pals.” 

And that's how Christophe ends up here, in a smelly, smoky, loud common room, staring into his second (third?) ale while the man across from him slams a fist down on the beer-stained table. 

“Did he even say goodbye?” 

Christophe blinks, looks up. The man across from him—Balthus, he'd said, when he'd nearly kicked down the door to his father's mansion and demanded to see Holst—looks unsteady even as he sits, his cheeks rosy and eyes glazed. 

“Well?” Balthus pushes. 

“Uh, no, I mean, sort of,” Christophe says.

“Which is it, bud?” 

Christophe shakes his head, trying to remember 63 days ago when Holst left to return to Goneril. Important business. No choice and all that. “I think so.” 

Balthus huffs. He hefts his ale, downing it in several long gulps. A trickle slips from the corner of his mouth and slides down his neck and Christophe finds himself watching it wind its way past Balthus' bobbing Adam's apple, all the way down to the hard muscle of his chest, exposed by his open shirt.

The empty mug hardly hits the table before Balthus flags down a server for another. 

“You?” Balthus says.

Christophe shakes his head, looking into the ale he still has left in his mug. More than enough. Probably more than he should. He's Lord Lonato's son, after all. That fact is drawing its share of stares, but the people of Gaspard have known him for all of his 20 years and they leave him be.

That could change if this Balthus character carries on raving. He's a large man, built like a soldier with a voice loud enough to carry across a battlefield. Christophe can't help but wonder how and why he knows Holst.

He struggles not to let his thoughts carry on down that path. Of course Holst has admirers all over. He's amazing. And strong. And brave. And when he smiles it's like the sun dims for a moment in comparison. And—

“You alright there, pal?” Balthus says.

Goddess, is he ever not alright. Hasn't been for 63 long, miserable days.

Balthus is watching him with … merciful Seiros, is that concern? Those dark eyes of his are staring Christophe down. This whole ordeal has started to feel all too much like a battle: Fighting down his desire to wallow, deflecting this strange and sudden guest, dodging the stab wounds the name “Holst” inflicts each and every time it's uttered. 

“I'm fine,” Christophe says. 

Balthus smirks, stands, steadying himself against the table before dragging Christophe to his feet. 

“Hey, what are you—”

“Come to my room,” Balthus says, his voice a low, hot rumble. 

Christophe's face flushes with heat. “W-what?”

“You ain't making it back home on your own,” Balthus says. “I've got a room here. Sleep it off, bud.” 

Christophe isn't sure if Balthus means the booze or his general shitty mood, but he has to concede. He's in no state to wobble home alone.

“And pay for the drinks, will ya?”

Christophe tosses a few coins on the table.

When Balthus starts walking, Christophe stumbles along beside him. Or under him, perhaps. His arm is like a tree trunk; Christophe can see little but the stairs beneath his feet as he and Balthus sway up to the second story and down a hall. 

Balthus totters when they enter the room, dragging Christophe with him. He stumbles for a second and almost seems to catch himself before the whole world tilts. 

Balthus hits the bed first, but Christophe has no choice about falling as well. He catches himself against Balthus, his hands grabbing for anything they can reach. Christophe is face-first in bulging pecs when they hit the bed. He can smell and taste Balthus' sweat as he struggles to right himself, to get his face and hands away from Balthus' bare flesh, but that heady musk is all around him, making his head swim from more than just the alcohol. 

63 days. And he hasn't touched a soul other than himself in all that time. 

Christophe manages to push himself up, but his hands pause against the hard, smooth muscle of Balthus' abdomen. He didn't even know humans could _have_ this many abs. Now they're right there under his fingers. And Balthus isn't pulling away. 

Christophe looks down, eyes flying wide, but his hands remain frozen on the other man's body. Balthus' mouth is slightly agape, his dark eyes burning like coals. 

“I-I'm—”

“Been a while,” Balthus says, his voice a dark, rasping scratch. “Haven't seen Holst in a good minute.”

“M-me neither.” 

“Shame.” 

But Balthus doesn't look like he feels any particular shame as he reaches up, setting a finger under Christophe's chin. Christophe has time for a fleeting thought— _oh shit oh shit oh shit_ —then Balthus' mouth finds his, sour from the ale and hard as those delicious abs. It's nothing like Holst's, nothing like those soft, careful, coaxing kisses. Balthus is _hungry_. Starving, from the feel of it. And he apparently intends to make Christophe his next meal.

Balthus surges up, guiding Christophe along with him until Christophe's back hits a wall. Hard. That ravenous mouth is still trying to devour him, muffling his questions as the world rocks. Balthus is against his leg, hard and aching. A whimper escapes Christophe's mouth as his body responds in kind. 

Balthus breaks away, but stays so close his hot breath puffs against Christophe's face. He doesn't loosen his grip or stop pressing his body against Christophe's, even as desperation softens those hungry, dark eyes. 

Christophe can only ache in sympathy. He's sure he looks every bit as pathetic, every bit as yearning and forlorn and breakable, and likely for the same reason. 

That's all the negotiation it takes, all the acknowledgment they share. They don't utter the name “Holst,” but it beats between them, clenches their hands more tightly on each other's clothing, parts their lips around half-formed gasps. 

Balthus spins Christophe around, pushing him face-first against the wall. He grabs at Christophe's hip, pulling him back against his straining cock and rubbing against his ass, fingers digging in at Christophe's hip to yank him closer. He braces against the wall and rolls back to meet him. 

Balthus grunts, the only language either of them seem to have left. Then his hand sneaks below Christophe's waistband. Christophe gasps when a large, rough hand grabs his cock, pumping him in sure strokes. He bucks into the feeling, squeezing his eyes shut, shoving aside every thought that is not blind pleasure. Even the wall he's pressed against doesn't feel steady enough to ground him. Everything is surreal and tenuous as that hand unravels him one stroke at a time. 

Balthus withdraws abruptly. Christophe hears a rustling of belts and fabric behind him. Then his trousers start sliding down. 

He's about to protest, to put a halt to this breath of insanity. But Balthus drops to his knees with a thud and his tongue glides up Christophe's thigh. Balthus gropes at Christophe's ass as his tongue keeps sliding upward, exploring higher and higher until it's circling the tight ring of muscle at the peak. 

Balthus dives in, prodding and licking, igniting every nerve like fire consuming a pile of helpless tinder. Christophe yelps as Balthus devours his ass, going at it with the same fervor he used to down pints in single swigs. The man truly has a ferocious appetite. Christophe's legs quiver. He fears he really might crumble, even propped against the wall. 

“Fuck,” Christophe gasps. 

Balthus must take that as some sort of signal because his tongue withdraws. Balthus' solid, muscled body is against Christophe again, pressing him closer to the wall. He frees his cock and angles it between Christophe's legs. As he ruts, their cocks rub against each other, hard and weeping. Christophe squeezes his thighs together and Balthus shudders against him. 

“Yeah, that's good.” Balthus' voice is a burst of wet heat against Christophe's neck. It sends ripples of warmth through him. 

Balthus gets Christophe's cock back in his hand as he starts to thrust in earnest between Christophe's thighs. It's a little rough with nothing but pre-cum and saliva to lubricate the way, but neither of them seem to care just then. Balthus' hand is sure and swift on Christophe's cock. His thrusts shove Christophe against the wall with a steady pound, pound, pound that has to be audible to the rest of the inn. Christophe squeezes tighter around Balthus' cock and the larger man rasps a curse at his ear. 

Balthus pumps harder and Christophe rolls his hips back to encourage him. He doesn't know how he's still standing. His cock is aching in Balthus' hold, begging for the stroke that will finally bring release. His mind is empty aside from the need for more, please, goddess, more. 

“H-harder,” Christophe whimpers. 

Balthus huffs. A laugh? Regardless, he complies, squeezing Christophe's cock, and Christophe shuts his eyes so tightly he sees bursts of color. 

“Goddess,” Christophe moans. “It's so good. So good. Oh—oh fuck.” 

Christophe seizes, his body going rigid as his cock twitches. Cum splatters against his shirt and belly. His legs tremble like a newborn foal. 

Balthus slams his hips forward. He's grunting and panting now, rutting with desperation. He releases Christophe's cock, grabbing his hair instead, tilting his head back. All Christophe can do is gasp for breath as Balthus shudders against him, slinging a slew of curses as his body goes rigid and sudden warmth dribbles against Christophe's thighs. 

They don't relax at first, frozen like some ghastly statue. They're both panting, sweating, shaking like two thin branches caught in a wind storm. 

Balthus' hand eases out of Christophe's hair. There's cum on Christophe's stomach, his thighs, the wall in front of him. His back is slick with sweat from where their bodies pressed together. His legs are still unsteady beneath him. But his mind—for the first time in 63 days, his mind is blissfully empty, blissfully untroubled. 

Balthus leaves and for a horrible moment Christophe is left cold and trembling and alone. He shivers with horror at his own actions. Balthus soon returns, though, gently cleaning up the mess on Christophe's stomach and thighs, wiping the sweat from his back. 

Balthus says nothing, just tugs at Christophe's hand. They fall into the bed together, Balthus pressed against Christophe's back, his nose nuzzling in Christophe's hair. They don't share another word that night.

#

“Shit.”

Christophe wakes with a start. Balthus jerks his arms away.

“Well … fuck,” Balthus says.

Christophe's head is pounding, not simply from the alcohol. The whole world feels like it's spinning. “Oh goddess. We...”

“Yeah, listen, uh, pal.”

“Christophe.” He sits up, dragging a sheet with him. His pants are somewhere on the floor still. 

“Sure.” Balthus leaps off the bed and rushes back into his clothing. Christophe remains huddled in the sheets. “Hey, bud, I'm sorry if … It's just that Holst … and … you know...” 

“No, it's...” Christophe says. “We both...” 

“Yeah.” Balthus shrugs. 

“It's just, you know, it's been so long. And when he leaves like that I never know when he'll come back, or if he'll even come back. And I guess...” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

Balthus studies his feet, attempting to look casual with his hands on his hips. 

“Thanks,” Christophe says, “for, uh, commiserating. Or something.”

Balthus laughs at himself, but his smile is genuine. “Commiserating. Sure thing, pal.” 

He tosses Christophe's trousers at the bed and Christophe awkwardly shuffles into them. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to look like the son of Lord Lonato and not a drunk idiot who fucked a stranger last night out of their mutual, pathetic loneliness. 

He chances a look up. Balthus is straightening out his own hair. That damn shirt of his is still open, exposing his chiseled chest. Unbidden, the memory of how those hard, smooth abs feel under his hands rises.

Christophe tears his eyes away, jerking to his feet, straightening his clothing. He just needs to get home. He just needs to slink downstairs, hopefully go unnoticed and sneak home before … Goddess, what time is it even? He glances at the window, where light is poking between the shutters. 

“Shit.”

Christophe scans the room for his belongings, but he didn't bring much with him last night. He rushes for the door.

“It wasn't that bad,” Balthus grumbles behind him. 

Christophe pauses at the door. It wasn't bad at all. It was distressingly _not_ bad, in fact. “It's not that,” he says. “It's just, my father...” He gestures at the sunlight pushing into the room.

“Oh, right. Yeah. Responsibilities and all that. Guess I'll … see ya around. Or won't.” 

“I guess.” Christophe turns away, starts to work at the door. He should feel relieved to have this humiliating ordeal behind him. Why, then, is he hesitating? Why does his chest feel so tight all of a sudden? 

He sighs, gives up on the door, curses himself before he turns to face Balthus.

“If, uh, I mean...” Christophe takes a breath, steadies himself. “If you ever need someone to commiserate with again … I'm around.” 

Balthus' eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he smirks. “I just might.” 

“Well.” Christophe straightens. “That would be … fine. I suppose.” 

“Just fine?” 

A blush crawls into his cheeks. “Don't push it.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Balthus says. “Fine it is, then.”

“Fine.” Christophe turns, manages the door at last and steps out into the hall. 

“See ya soon, bud,” Balthus mutters behind him.

Christophe smiles as he starts down the hall. “See ya soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!


End file.
